Rowling's Portkey
by Stefynae
Summary: You didn't really think J. K. thought up all that stuff by herself did you? One girl's adventure into the world of Harry Potter. For those who spend countless hours imagining what Harry's world really does look like.
1. Autobiography

NOTE: I'm writing this story because I need a break from everything else I'm writing.  And I wanted to write something in the first person.  Funny, to write something just because you want to say 'I' and 'me' and 'mine' and so on.  Well I say, 'mmm...whatever'.  And I write.  

By the way, the events leading up to the last three sentences in this chapter are absolutely true.  Oops, I shouldn't a told ye that.

Rowling's Portkey

Chapter One

My life had never been that interesting.  And when I say that I absolutely mean it.  Some people say that but with most there's always at least _something that is interesting.  _

With me, there wasn't.  

My life was so boring that I actually did watch paint dry for fun.  Honestly, my mother and I painted our family room a few years ago and I literally sat on the floor and stared at the caramel colored paint as it dried to our walls.  

And I was amused by it.

My life is was so boring that I can admit to the world that I am the type of person who will spend hours on the internet sifting through pointless sites to find something remotely interesting.  When I found that interesting something, it was normally nothing interesting to anyone but me.  

I was entertained very easily.  I loved watching America's Funniest Home Videos because I enjoyed watching people hurt themselves.  Honestly, that's the truth.  In fact, as I think about it, I still enjoy watching people hurt themselves.  

But that's just between you and me.  

I used to fold napkins as a hobby.  

And collect journals.  

I wouldn't write anything in them.  I still don't write anything in them.  I just have them.  They're empty.  And pretty.  I was too afraid I would ruin them with boring things.

Because my life was boring.

And then I met Harry Potter.  

I first received the Sorcerer's Stone one bright Christmas day in the year of...well, I don't precisely remember the year.  But that's irrelevant.  I do remember that I gave my mother a weak smile and thanked her for the gift.  I tossed it upon my pile of other presents and cast it off as a dull _children's book and nothing more.  I was embarrassed, to say the least, that my mother had bought such a book.  I didn't pick it up again for a long while._

Until I started hearing more and more about what a wonderful book it was.  And then I heard it was going to be made into a movie.  So I picked it up again, and still with a doubtful mind, I started reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

And I loved it.  Loved everything about it.  And then I demanded that my mother purchase the next book.  By this time the first four books of the series were already out in bookstores, so you can imagine how frustrated I was at being so far behind in my reading.  My mother sighed and went off to find the next book.  She ended up ordering it online.  I nearly peed my pants when that sacred brown package arrived at our doorstep.  I ripped open the box and there it was.

The third book.

My smile faded.  I rolled my eyes.

            "Dearest mother, you were mistaken in purchasing this novel, for it is not the one that follows second in the Harry Potter series.  This is the third of that," I said to her.  Or something close to that.  So she suggested I read that one anyway.  I was appalled.  How could she say such a thing?  She had no idea the importance of reading in chronological order.  So after a frightful tantrum, brought to you by yours truly, she continued her search.  

After coming back from a long day at a craft show, she pulled out a large book from her arm and laid it out in front of my eyes.  And to my surprise it was a book.  A large, _very large, __green book._

The fourth book.

By then I concluded that the search for the second book was officially out of my mother's state of comprehension.  

But I was wrong.

When I finally received the second book I whizzed through it in a matter of days.  And now that I had the other two, I was all set in my reading.

So I read.

And read.

And read.

And finally I was finished.  And the movie was drawing near.  By this time I was fascinated by Harry and his wondrous world and I could not get my mind off of him.  And when the movie came I was ecstatic.  I could hardly believe it was happening.  The movie was amazing.  I was so happy to be there that the 2 hours and 32 minutes it took for the story to be played out felt like three minutes to me.  I was smiling from ear to ear for a week after I saw that movie.  I couldn't get over it.  In fact, I was so into Harry's world by now that I re-read the latest three books so I could remind myself of everything that happened.  

And then my imagination got the best of me.

I started writing my own fiction.  Most of it (okay, okay, ALL of it) had to deal with the character Severus Snape.  He fascinated me.  And not just by Alan Rickman's performance in the movie (which was played out superbly), but also by the character that is formed in my mind while reading J. K. Rowling's words.  What a disparity between the book character and the movie character.  I have always been a softy for bad guys, so naturally I chose to write about Severus.  

So I wrote.  I let my imagination run loose and I imagined myself as the characters that entered his life.  And looking back upon it, that was totally Mary-Sue-ish of me.  Which is funny, considering I didn't even know what a Mary Sue was until recently.  And by the way, I'm amused by stories like that.  And I say (not just because I can be like this also) if someone wants to glamorize themselves and be perfect in a story and end up with the person of their dreams, so be it.  That's what writing is all about.  Making our wildest dreams come true.  If that's not it, what the hell _is it all about?_

Anyway, getting back to _me.  (Lockhart?  What are you doing here!?)  My life was boring.  And then I met Harry Potter._

And when I mean I met him, I really mean it.

I

met

the 

real

Harry

Potter.


	2. London Tangents

I'm so sorry about uploading this chapter…it didn't work at first!  It was really weird how it showed up on this site.  Just 'Chapter Two' and then two exclamation marks.  Weird…

Anyway…

Chapter Two

It happened on one of those rare occasions that I actually got out of the house.  In fact, this occasion was _very rare, because I had actually gotten out of the __country.  Yes, dear friends, I was walking the streets of London, England.  A place I had dreamed of visiting for a greater portion of my life, and when I received the news that some friend's of my parents had invited me over for a month in the summer, I nearly passed out from the excitement.  And don't doubt that I can fall unconscious from excitement; remember that 'excitement' is a word that doesn't enter one's vocabulary when describing my life.  But nevertheless, I was going to England.  I was ecstatic, to say the very least.  It was going to be the trip of the lifetime._

If I only knew…

The details of my arrival and so forth are unimportant.  They are miniscule facts that need not be regurgitated to you lovely readers, so I will skip to the important part of the story.

I was walking the streets of London, as I said before, on one of those rare cloudy days that hardly exist in the great city.  Okay, so it was just as gloomy as always, and that day was no exception.  It was unusually cold, though, and I cursed myself for not remembering to bring gloves as my hands froze in the pockets of my sweatshirt.  Then I remembered; it was summer, and if I had brought gloves I would have been _way too prepared.  The icy breeze whipped my face as I trudged along the busy streets, trying desperately to avoid running into anyone in case they started shouting at me in a cockney accent with words that just didn't seem to be English.  Trust me—that was hard trying not to bump into others.  In fact, it was impossible.  But it was easier to avoid the English and bump into the other Americans instead.  They were easily distinguishable as the ones with the cameras.  _

Americans always have cameras.  

And Japanese.  

No, for crying out loud, I'm not stereotypical, I'm just stating facts.  But back to my walking...

I ducked onto a side street to rid myself of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the main road.  The air was less stuffy and the sidewalks less populated.  With my hands still stuffed deep into my pockets I preceded cautiously down the concrete path laid out before me.  

I had this thing; you may think it kind of weird, but it's important that I tell you.  You see, my brother died when I was fourteen years old (as my mother put it, "he lost his battle with depression", or if you want it in lamen's terms, "he put a shotgun in his mouth and...").  But the interesting thing about this disturbing story is that my mother went to see this psychic (yeah, whatever, just read it and roll your eyes afterwards).  And my brother actually _talked to her.  See, ever since he died she would keep finding these pennies all over the place.  You know how that is—finding loose change in various places in your little world.  Well she started collecting them, calling them "pennies from heaven", and she honestly believed that that was a way for my brother to communicate with her.  _

I always thought it a little eccentric. 

But my brother, through the psychic, told my mom that those pennies were in fact from him.  Believe it or not, it's up to you.  But I definitely believed.  So I started up my own "pennies from heaven" collection.  But whenever I found change it was usually dimes and quarters, which I was always bragging to my mom about.  I shut up, though, after she said, "Maybe the reason why he gives you so much change is because he knows how you like to spend all your money all the time."  

Ouch Mom, ouch.

So that's that story, and now on with the other.  As I was walking, I stared at the ground.  I always do this to avoid eye contact with strangers.  It's always easier to just avoid faces altogether instead of looking at them and wondering whether to say hi or not, and then feeling like an idiot when you do and they give you a funny look, or feel guilty when you don't.  Anyway, I was walking.  With my head down.  And then I stopped.  I saw a penny lying on the ground.  And I smiled for the first time that day.  I stood staring at it for a while, smiling.  I must have looked like a complete putz as I look back on it, just standing and staring, and smiling.  I must have looked _really creepy.  No wonder everyone crossed to the other side of the street when they approached me.  As I stared, smiling, standing, I thanked my brother silently for finding me all the way in London and letting me know that he was with me.  And I leaned down to pick the penny up.  Heads up, it was.  That's always __really nice to find.  Luck and reassurance.  _

But my happiness didn't last for long.  

It soon drifted off as I held the coin in my hand.  A very peculiar feeling spread over me.  I started to get dizzy, and it looked like the world was spinning.  In fact, it _was spinning.  The dark colors swirled around me so fast that I felt like I was going to pass out (I feel like that all the time, but this time I really __did feel like I was going to pass out).  As I spun—or the world spun around me—I caught sight of a cafe door being thrown open and a woman sprinting toward me.  Before she reached me, I felt as though a hook just behind my navel had been jerked forward.  My feet left the ground, and I was pulled through swirling colors and endless sky.  _

It was the oddest and most sickening feeling I had ever felt, and when my feet hit the ground, I threw up.

It was really gross.


End file.
